


Beginning Anew

by williamastankova



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Sleepiness, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Aziraphale falls asleep in Crowley's Bentley, so the demon carries him upstairs in the bookshop and lays him in bed. When the angel stirs, however, confessions follow, and their lives together change forever.





	Beginning Anew

Angels and demons don't get tired. This is how Crowley knows something is wrong, from the very get-go, because despite all odds, here is the angel Aziraphale, head leaning against the window of his Bentley as though the only thing he needed in the world was rest. To be quite honest, even though Crowley doesn't get sleepy, he can't quite blame the man; they have just stopped the apocalypse, after all.

Strictly speaking, actually, that was a short while back, but it still feels as though it was yesterday. The pair of them haven't quite gotten over how it all went down, after millennia of build-up, to dissolve in a matter of moments. Anticlimactic wasn't quite the word, but that was the one Crowley was willing to settle for as he pulled up outside of the bookstore, ready to drop off Aziraphale.

Instinctively, his hand shot up and was prepared to all but slap the angel awake, but his conscience stopped him. Since when had he grown one of those? His hand lingered in the air with a severe lack of things to do, then he put it back on his lap. He pondered for a moment, then swung open the car door and stepped out. He quickly made his way around to Aziraphale's door, forgetting to close his own, and made short work of picking up his friend.

He was as careful as he could be. Admittedly, along the way, Aziraphale did bump his head once or twice, but in the grand scheme of things it didn't really matter because he stayed asleep regardless. Crowley hoistered him up, groaning when he realised just how hard work it was to drag a virtual dead body beside him, and snapped his fingers to shut his doors the lazy way. With them, the lights switched off and the doors locked, leaving them able to slip into the shop.

If Crowley found it difficult to get Aziraphale across the street, he found it impossible to navigate his way upstairs. Though he cared for the angel greatly, he had to admit in that moment that he wished he had just woken him up in the cruel way. It would have been much easier on his back.

Sure enough, after throwing himself into the wall a handful of times to ensure they didn't go tumbling back down the narrow staircase, he reached the top, successfully bringing the two of them to the landing where he felt able to breathe again. He took a personal moment, sure that Aziraphale hadn't stirred, then took the final steps over to the angel's single bed. Of course, as with almost everything about the angel, it was pristine. The whole room was cleaned, save for a few strewn books that Crowley presumed Aziraphale had been skim-reading.

He sighed heavily when he finally lay the angel down, letting himself fall back against a wooden beam in relief to only be dealing with his own weight in that moment. He took a second to fix Aziraphale's sleeping position, tucking his feet into the beige blanket at the foot of the bed, then found himself a nice little chair to sit on and contemplate what to do next.

He could hardly wait for Aziraphale to wake up. That could be forever, and surely there was something better for Crowley to do than to wait on the angel hand-and-foot? Well, even if there wasn't, he did so often like to pretend that there was, even if that meant returning to his flat for a little until Aziraphale called him again. It was, on paper, a sad existence, but it was one he found he rather enjoyed anyway. Something about his friend made it all seem worth it.

Just as he was about to brush the dust off of his black jeans, Aziraphale made a small noise. Not a pained one, mind, otherwise Crowley would have immediately sprung into action, but it was something alerting nonetheless. It told the demon that his friend was coming back to consciousness, and surely enough at that moment the angel's arm came to his own aid, enabling him to sit upwards and look around the room.

It took a split second longer than it perhaps should have for Aziraphale's gaze to land on him, but when it did the smile that cracked his face was more than sufficient. It made a light appear in Crowley's dark, black soul, yet he couldn't decide if he liked that or not. The angel looked a little disoriented at best, completely lost at worse, but it was as though seeing him made everything make sense again.

"Crowley," the way he said his name made the place where the demon's heart should have been flutter, almost like something beautiful had taken residence there. He choked back any and all sound to let his friend continue, "What are you doing here?"

"Watching over you, like an angel. Ha!" He forced himself to laugh at his own joke when he realised how sickly sincere his words sounded otherwise, and they just couldn't have that. He decided it was high time for a diversion. "Why'd you fall asleep? Thought your people didn't need to sleep."

"We don't," Aziraphale looked at him, and something in his eyes suddenly turned sheepish and embarrassed, "It only happens when... oh, well, that's not important, is it?"

"No, do go on. Do tell," Crowley implored, taking his seat again, part of him (most of him) glad to hear his friend's voice again, having been feeling blue when he had had to leave without an exchanged word. "I believe I've earned it by carrying you up those stairs. You owe me money for your head denting my car, by the way - reparations."

Aziraphale smiled a coy smile, and there was the bitterly sweet sensation in his chest again. "I'll get it to you by Monday."

"You'd better!" Crowley smirked back, pointing a finger in jest at the angel, playing along for a moment. Then, as soon as the mood had changed, it reverted back to suit the topic at hand. "What were you going to say, anyway? About angels falling asleep?"

"Oh, well..." Aziraphale looked guilty suddenly, and wholly regretful that he'd chosen to say anything at all in the first place. "Well, yes, we do sleep, on occasion. When we feel most at peace, anyway, we have the capacity to. It's less of a need than it is a want. Occasionally it just happens, you see?"

Crowley nodded once slowly, considering what the angel had said, tossing the idea around his head. He couldn't quite decide how to best respond, so his brain and mouth decided to opt for the automatic.

"Better not tell our people, hey?" He forced his mouth to remain a straight line, adding to his rather humorous joke. "They might not like it if they find out that who we feel most comfortable with is... well, an angel, and a demon. Respectively. That'll be one for the papers."

"Heaven doesn't have newspapers," Aziraphale chuckled, though it seemed somewhat sad. His eyes fell to the floor, as though avoiding Crowley. His mouth remained partially open, like he wanted to say more but couldn't make the words come out. It was either that or Crowley was projecting his racing mind onto the angel, and he really was done then and there. Still, he couldn't help but feel that Aziraphale had more to say, and so he decided to push it a little further.

"Why is that, do you reckon?" He inquired, then shaking his head and furrowing his brow, feeling foolish. "Not the newspapers. I mean why do you think we feel most at home together? Force of mind and circumstance, maybe?"

"Perhaps," Aziraphale nodded his head to the side, considering the notion, then discarding it obviously. "Though maybe it's something else."

"Something else?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale shook his head, and Crowley wished it was within his power to clear both of their heads. Well, maybe it was, but he wasn't willing to try; it felt far too invasive, and so much less personal. "Something about you and your demonic self... you just feel like home to me, Crowley. After six thousand years of being together, I don't suppose it could go any other way, really."

Crowley nodded subconsciously, then became more sure of the action the longer he pondered upon the angel's words. "Yes, I think you're right. Absolutely right, angel. Surely it's a platonic bond we've grown to share, something about destiny and whatever. Heaven and hell colliding, as they say. Or maybe..."

It was Crowley's turn to play the bashful card, though he was doing it on purpose. He made note of how Aziraphale's pale face gained colour at his words, and how the previously drooping, dramatic corners of his eyes lifted up when he spoke. The angel met his gaze, holding it properly for the first time in their whole conversation, and his look implored Crowley to go on, even if the words never came.

"What if," Crowley spoke slowly, teasingly, "What if this was the plan all along? To get us together? And what if we aren't meant to be just friends; what if we're destined to be together?"

" _Together_?" Aziraphale's words rang far too familiar in his ears, making Crowley wince a little internally. He braced for the second rejection, but then merely heard, "You really mean it?"

"Truly," Crowley felt the corners of his mouth tip upwards with joy, "When have I ever been known to lie, angel?"

Aziraphale took a moment, still seeming somewhat frightened, then slipped slowly from the bed and came to stand before Crowley. The latter did not take the initiative to stand, instead thinking it better to let Aziraphale come to him; he didn't want to force anything on him that he didn't want. If their lines had been blurred somewhere, at any point on the map, he would surely know about it soon enough. He would rather find out in this way and be crushed than to invade Aziraphale's space and be utterly devastated, shattered into a million pieces of an impossible jigsaw of himself.

As hoped, the angel bowed down, bringing himself to Crowley's eye level. His breath stilled and Crowley thought it was a miracle that he didn't turn blue, as he hadn't heard him breathe in a good ten seconds or so, though he supposed shortly after that he must have done, because he began speaking.

"So, rather, you mean..." Aziraphale drew nearer to him, making his chest clench in anticipation, "You don't mind me doing this?"

Crowley felt rather like an inspected science project, but he had no complaints with the proximity. "Not at all."

"And..." Aziraphale trailed off, then brought a hand to run delicately through Crowley's vibrant red locks, brushing the hair back into place where it had apparently fallen forward. The brush of the angel's fingers atop his ear send a pulsing wave of electricity through Crowley's body. "This?"

"No objections whatsoever, angel."

"What about-" Aziraphale suddenly removed the hand from his hair and made to grab his tinted glasses, removing them in one swift motion, as though he had been doing it all his life. "What about this?"

The angel watched him intently. Crowley awaited the realisation to hit him, what he was implying he was about to do, and he expected Aziraphale to shove him away immediately and demand that he leave the shop, never to return. If there was going to be any distinct reminder that Crowley was, in fact, a demon from hell, it would have to be his chartreuse eyes. The slit amongst the absinthe green-yellow was undeniably evil, and it was the ultimate proof that Crowley was a malevolent being, and for this he was never to be trusted.

Despite this, despite the fact that Aziraphale should have ran screaming and refused to hand himself over in such an intimate way, the angel simply looked on at him. There was no disgust nor disdain in his blue eyes, and in fact if Crowley was not completely delusional, there even seemed to be warmth dripping through to him. An apology, perhaps? He knew not what for, but amongst the melancholy energy there was adoration: there, in the pits of his eyes, lay love.

It took just the right amount of time for Aziraphale to lay his eyes on Crowley's lips and begin to draw forward, almost as though he were falling in slow motion. Still, despite the excruciating wait that somehow felt longer than the previous six thousand years, Crowley refrained from moving to meet him. He wanted this moment to prove to himself that Aziraphale wanted him, and he was willing to come to him. He wanted nothing less than to force the angel into a situation he wanted no part of, and the result of this was a hundred thousand fireworks being lit in Crowley's stomach as their lips met.

It was sweet. It bordered on platonic, friendly, though he wasn't a fool. No friends kissed like this. Even those in the greater parts of Europe didn't kiss on the lips if it meant nothing, and so in this way he knew it was special. In the seconds their lips were pressed together, Crowley saw all of their interactions throughout history flash before his eyes. The very first time they had met, on the wall guarding Eden, to their most recent encounter.

He suddenly became very grateful for having met this being, the strange blond angel who had an affinity for books, magic, and getting himself into unholy trouble. The most sinful angel Crowley had ever met, except perhaps for those who had actually fell, and the sweetest creature in all of creation. He couldn't be certain, in that moment or in any other, that God hadn't designed him just for him. She just had Her ways like that.

When their lips parted, Crowley could only stare up in awe at Aziraphale. He admired the flushed look on his face and decided, despite what it signalled, that it rather suited him. The red that almost but not quite matched Crowley's hair was beautiful - though it was difficult to make the angel look anything but. He looked so divine, so peaceful, so flustered, so everything at once that Crowley had to kiss him again. And again. And again.

But for now, that was something to postpone. Not for too long, mind, else Crowley might implode, for now that he understood how Aziraphale tasted and smelled and looked up-close, he couldn't fathom never touching him in such a way again. They would sort through boundaries and such when the time came, but for now he shot up from his seat, coming to stand before the angel who looked a little bewildered, and enveloped him in his arms.

This may have been misconstrued as platonic, but he didn't mind. While not his intention, the motive behind it was still the same. This was his own way of apologising for everything, for any betrayal and silly little fight. For the six thousand years he'd been in love with the angel - yes, _in love,_ damn it all - and done absolutely nothing about it. Though he didn't know when Aziraphale's feelings for him began, he had to admit he felt responsible for them waiting so very long.

The angel fell pliant as clay beneath his touch. He moulded into Crowley's body, as though he was meant to be there all along, and the demon relaxed wholly when he felt arms come to wrap around his middle, pulling him in closer. This was the 'I forgive you' portion, the response to his apology, and he finally felt able to begin working on reconciling with himself. It might take a while, it might take literal ages, but he figured he had all the time in the world - and it would all be manageable with one special angel by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! leave comments down below telling me what you thought & if you have any ideas for future fics :)


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